


Silence

by misskatieleigh



Series: the normal life is an illusion [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cutting, F/M, Physical Abuse, Preseries, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-07
Updated: 2007-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t talk about it – these things seen and felt in the dark of night. They live in silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of an interlude in my fic “Normal”. You might want to read that to know who the girl in the story is, but it’s not essential. Contains mention of abuse and cutting that may seem offensive to some readers. No harm intended.
> 
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> 
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> 
> **written ages ago, just moving things from livejournal. sorry for the sudden influx.**

It's already dark when Dean gets home. Mr. Robinson’s Pontiac has seen far better days but it’s the only thing the man has left of his wife - the memories of her in that car – so Dean patches the old girl up as best he can; enough to keep her running for another few thousand miles.

It’s pretty late when he walks into his room, dirt streaked roughly across the navy jumper with his name sewn into a patch over his chest. He’s surprised to see Amy there; it’s a school night and her daddy has rules about that. She’s asleep, laid out across his bed in nothing but one of his old t-shirts. He can’t see much in the dark except the long line of her legs, her face hidden in the shadows. The only light comes from the ever-flickering streetlight outside, backed up by the cool hue of moonlight. Her skin lights up gold then silver, the shirt barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Dean steps forward, stripping off his work clothes along the path to the bed.

He sits down gently, the bed dipping under his weight. She shifts then, rolling onto her stomach to reveal the tear in the shirt. His mind flashes back -- sharp claws tearing into cotton before flesh, blood soaking through. He remembers Sam’s steady hands stitching him back together with black thread.

He doesn’t realize he’s touching her until she moves again, looking up at him from under a curtain of dark hair. Her voice is rough - deep from sleep and something else, the evidence written in translucent tracks down her cheeks.

“You’re home.”

Dean’s fingers move unconsciously, wandering across her back in a soothing sweep before dipping under the torn fabric.

“Had to work on Mr. Robinson’s car again.”

She smiles, twisting back onto her side before sitting up. Her hand slides over his back and up under his shirt, fingers tracing the curve of scar there.

They don’t talk about that.

He smiles a little, a brief curve at the corner of his mouth. His hands reach for her arm, thumb tracing along the inside of her wrist. The barely visible scar is smooth under his touch; a ridge of white in daylight, but it’s dark here.

They don’t talk about that either.

She doesn’t pull away, fingers drifting down over his ribcage, the tickling flutter bringing a true smile to his mouth.

“Come on, you need a shower.”

 

\--- --- ---

The shower’s small, barely enough room for one but they slip in together. Amy angles her hand behind her to twist the faucet on, rewarded with a shock of cool water before the warmth flows down over them. Her hair turns darker in the water, almost black under the stream and she tilts her head back to let it flow down over her face and between them.

Her back brushes the wall when Dean steps forward to duck under the water, her body framed suddenly by solid arms and thighs, broad shoulders and smooth chest. He knows that anyone else crowding her like this would have her fighting, but somehow it’s not like that with him, so he surrounds her in warmth and breath and skin because she allows it.

He closes his eyes against the water; the steady pulse slowly easing away the tightness in his face and across his shoulders. Her hands are light, soft strokes down his sides and across his chest. The bar of soap in her hands leaves a trail of suds in its wake, dipping down across his belly in a teasing slip of fingers. Dean smiles, stealing the soap from her hands to reverse the attack but she surprises him with a kiss, her tongue stealing all thoughts but one from his mind.

 

\--- --- ---

She’s laughing as he chases her into the bedroom, her earlier tears washed away and forgotten. He follows her onto the bed, pulling damp towels away and quieting her with his mouth.

“Hush now.”

He follows the familiar path, curve over pulse and breast and flare of hip until the taste of her floods his mouth, wet and sweet. Her breath comes out in a rush, a barely audible semblance of his name and her thighs tense under his hands. Dean pulls away, soothing kisses across her stomach until her breath calms. There’s a short burst of scars there as well, thin white slices marking where no one can see; control under her own hands.

 

\--- --- ---

They don’t talk about why she’s here, never about the scars on her body or on his. He doesn’t ask about the bruise, black and purple on her arm, or the hand that created it, drunk and stubborn at home.

They don’t talk about Sam, the way he looks at her or the folder Dean found hidden under his mattress. They don’t talk about summer or graduation. They don’t talk about him leaving.

They don’t speak the words, not with sounds. They ask with soft touches and sharp teeth, skin on skin and legs twined around hips. They make promises with the slide of tongue on flesh.

They never say ‘love’.

It doesn’t make any of it less real.

 

\--- --- ---

Tomorrow keeps on coming, coffee scent heralding morning through the apartment. She’s gone when he wakes up, just the scent of her on his pillow as a memory. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and he doesn’t realize this has become routine until he gets that call and he realizes that this has to end. And he realizes that he doesn’t _want_ this to end.

Sometimes he wishes he had the nerve to speak.


End file.
